Strange as Angels
by LadyKailitha
Summary: Just Like Heaven movie AU. Sherlock Holmes is a man driven only by the Work. DI Lestrade and Sherlock's brother think he needs more in his life. John Watson is a lonely doctor with a tragic past who has moved into a flat whose previous resident isn't quite willing to give it up, yet. Somehow they are perfect for each other. If only Sherlock could remember what happened to him.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Thanks to my beta, old ping hai as always.  
**

**Right, after doing several AUs, I've come to the sad realization that I have to put a disclaimer up to avoid the inevitable comments of "That's not how Sherlock and John act!" Especially when I'm combining the characters with that of another show or movie.**

**So here we go. This may contain spoilers for both the story and the movie on which it is based, but I'll try to make my notes here as ambiguous as possible.**

**Janine — John's best friend. Needed someone to match the line, "We need someone amoral." Which considering most of John's friends aren't. Especially not someone who would kiss someone the day before their wedding. Janine is the best fit for all aspects of the character Jack.**

**Greg — the mentor. As much as I love Mystrade, Greg fits the bill of mentor much better.**

**Anthea — Mycroft's wife. No speaking parts in the movie and only seen once at the end. But again, the only one that fits the bill.**

**Irene — needed someone salacious and a seductress. Which is Irene no matter whose pants she's trying to get into.**

**And I think the rest of the characters speak for themselves. Of course, there are some changes that had to be made. Greg, Sherlock, and Donovan are cops/detectives and John is still a doctor. So the café scene gets changed, too.**

**I'm really sorry for the long Author's Note, but I feel it had to be done.**

**I hope you enjoy my story anyway.**

* * *

Sherlock stood in the middle of a garden over looking London. He felt at peace for the first time in his life, his mind slowed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Such green wasn't common in his city's urban expanse, which made this all the more stunning.

"Oi!" the cabbie hollered, waking the poor detective from his slumber. "You sure this is the right address? There are cops everywhere."

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and paid the man, giving him no tip. He slid out the taxi. He stood up and teetered a little before TAKING an unsteady step forward.

A grey-haired man watched as Sherlock made his way over, his shoulders slumped against the world. By the time the detective reached the other man, he was almost steady on his feet.

"Lestrade," Sherlock greeted the Inspector.

Greg shook his head. "I know you're trying to convince the Met to hire you on as a consultant, but you need sleep, too."

Sherlock waved him off. "Show me your little burglary," he said, fighting a yawn.

The Detective Inspector sighed and fell in step with the lanky consulting detective. But like a dog with a bone the older man pressed his concerns further. "You've got to get out more, go have a pint with friends once in a while," he prodded.

"You've met me; how many friends do you think I have?" Sherlock snarked.

"Right. Zero. So go out and meet people then, they can't all think you're a heartless bastard and a —"

"Oi! Freak!" Sally called out when she spotted them.

"Yeah, that," Greg finished with a grimace.

"Hello, Sally," Sherlock greeted. "Still dreadful at your job?" He looked her over, "And your choice of men, too, apparently. You do realize he has a wife?"

"Shut it," Greg said before Sally could retaliate. "Both of you."

Sherlock's jaw snapped shut with an audible click.

Sherlock entered the scene and once he started his deduction dance all fatigue dropped away. He wove to and fro, pulling facts seemingly out of nowhere and when he was done he proclaimed to all the house that gardener had buried her ruby necklace under the roses. He was supposed to have come back that night to get them, but the stupid man couldn't remember which bush he'd buried them under. The woman was so grateful that Sherlock found the culprit so quickly, she asked him to marry her twice in as many minutes.

His phone rang and he answered it with a sharp, "What?"

"Ah, brother," the smooth voice greeted on the other end. "So lovely to hear your delicate tones."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What do you want, Mycroft? I'm busy!"

"To invite you to dinner. One of my friends from university is coming and she's bringing a friend."

"I'm gay! I don't want whatever girlfriend you think I need. And a friend of a friend, no less? I'm fine!"

"Come now, brother, you need to get out more. This non-stop working has got to cease. At least make friends."

"I've been asked for my hand in marriage twice today!" Sherlock huffed.

"Oh my god! Marry me!" the woman cried as she ran up and clutched his arm.

"Make that three times." Sherlock shook her off as gently as he could.

"Grateful clients don't count. Just come tonight and meet him."

"Him? Why is she bringing a male friend? Oh god, he's gay, too. You are setting me up."

"Technically, he's bi."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine, but if he runs off by the second glass of wine, you will never set me up ever again. Deal?"

"Deal," Mycroft said, smug as if he'd won. Sherlock hung up, wondering what it was that made his brother so confidant.

That night found Sherlock in the back of a black taxi heading to his brother's house. Up ahead he saw a lorry coming their way. The cabbie screamed and then there was blackness.

* * *

John sighed. His real estate agent was an idiot. Well, that was a tad unkind, Mike was an old friend from uni and he was only trying to be helpful. He just didn't know John very well anymore and kept showing him places that drove him insane.

The Japanese-style one felt like a jab to his height.

And then he saw it. A "FOR LET" sign in the window of this amazing-looking place. It was one of those rare places in London that the march of progress had passed by. He dashed across the busy street with Mike hot on his heels.

"John!" he called out as the good doctor nearly got hit by a passing cab. Undeterred, John made it to the other side, Mike huffing painfully behind him.

"Here, John? Really?" the real estate agent huffed.

"I want to see it," John insisted.

Mike sighed and pulled out his mobile. John turned the handle and gently pushed. The door swung open with relative ease. He took a deep breath and stepped in. There was a rush of emotion and the sudden feeing of coming home.

Mike hung up and turned to John.

"All right, here's the deal. A and C are being rented and B is only being let on a month-to-month basis by the family."

"Lead the way," the doctor said, indicating with his hand.

Mike walked up the stairs and fished the key out of the box. "It might be a bit run down," he warned the other man. "According to the agency, the previous tenant was quite the eccentric." The door opened to reveal a comfy sitting room, filled with books and comfortable furniture.

"Bit of a mess," Mike commented.

"I'll take it," John nearly shouted.

Mike took a step back. "I'll get right on it."

And he did. John was all moved in by the end of the week. The TV that came with the flat was a bit old, but it worked, and John could make out the images on the screen well enough, so it was just fine.

He pulled a bottle of beer out of the fridge and sat down on the couch to watch…well, something. He really couldn't have cared less what was on. He popped open his beer and just sat there, staring blankly at the screen. He sighed and put his beer on the coffee table.

"Don't put that there!" protested a smooth baritone. John lurched in his seat. He looked around and there was no one there. He moved to set the beer down again but nothing happened. He ran his hands over his face. He looked at the beer and then picked it back up to down the thing in one gulp. He left it on the coffee table and got up to grab another beer.

"Beer?" someone scoffed. "The lowest common denominator. Such a sad state of affairs."

John spun around and standing next to the kitchen table was a tall man in a dark suit, his white dress shirt's top two buttons undone. His bright blue eyes were piercing and his dark, curly hair an artful mess.

John quickly grabbed the beer bottle as a weapon, but when he turned around, the figure was gone. Again he ran a hand over his face. "God, I'm just tired is all. When was the last time I actually slept? Jeez." He walked back out to the sitting room and nearly jumped out of his skin.

There, sitting on the leather chair, was the tall, dark figure.

"Is this what you do?" he asked.

"Uh?" John wasn't sure what to say to that.

"Break into people's flats and squat in them, filling their fridge with booze and placing it on the coffee table without respect for their things?"

"You don't live here," John said really slowly as if talking to a small child or raving lunatic. "I do. I moved in this weekend. I live here!"

That was when John decided to go out. He called his best friend and met her at a café.

Janine was about as tall as John was, only she favored high heels. Her dark-brown hair and eyes were perfectly placed in and around her pretty face.

He'd heard his mates call her voluptuous. But he really didn't think much about it. Today she was wearing black peep-toed shoes and jeans so tight that she looked as though someone poured her into them.

"Hey, Janine," he called out as he neared her table outside.

"John!" she called out happily. "How are you doing?"

"You aren't going to analyze me, are you?" John moaned.

"No, of course not!" Janine looked offended.

"Right."

"What? I'm a therapist. It's what we do."

"Ugh. Fine, whatever. I just don't want this getting back to your boss. He gives me the creeps."

"He's very prestigious."

"And blackmailing the hell out of at least half his clients!"

"There's never been any proof of that, John."

"Fine. Whatever."

"You realize you say that phrase a lot."

"Janine…" John moaned, his voice a low growl.

She raised her hands in surrender. "So, what's up"? she asked, changing the subject.

"Well, uh, I've been seeing someone…"

"That's fantastic! What does she look like?"

"It's a guy," John corrected.

"Ooh…" Janine cooed. "Guys are fine, too. I was going to introduce you to a good one that night you bailed on me."

"No, no!" John screeched, wanting to avoid the topic of his depression. "Not like that. Like seeing things, seeing someone."

"Oh." She whipped out her notebook and began jotting things down.

"Janine!" John protested.

"But this is good stuff, John," she told him. "Now describe him to me."

John got up in a huff and left. He stopped for more beer.

As he was putting the case in the fridge, he heard, "More beer? At least use a coaster this time."

John jumped.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I'm sorry it took so long. Life has been a mess of a roller-coaster and it doesn't seem to be letting up any time soon. But be rest assured, I will not leave you hanging.**

Thanks to my lovely beta old ping hai.

* * *

John whirled around and again, there was no one there. He ran his fingers down his face and through his hair. He just needed sleep. And more beer. Lots more beer.

He raised an arm and sniffed himself. He couldn't remember the last time he showered. He sighed. If he couldn't remember it, it was past time for one. After making sure there was a towel in the bathroom, he stripped down and as he moved toward the shower, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His eyes were sunken, and his face was tired, the lines making him appear forty-five instead of thirty-five.

Maybe Janine was right, maybe he did need to get out more. He lumbered over to the shower, turned it on as hot as possible and stepped into the stream. It scalded his skin, turning it a bright red. He just wished it could burn out memories, too.

John stayed in until the water turned to ice. He climbed out, not feeling any better than when he went in, as the man in the mirror could attest. If only he was the only man in the mirror.

John jumped and spun around, and again there wasn't anyone there. Wasn't there a poem or something about meeting a man on a stair who wasn't there, and how the writer wished the man would go away? Because that's what John's life was turning into. He kept seeing a man that wasn't there, and he desperately wished the man would go away.

The doctor got dressed and shuffled back to the kitchen. He pulled out a beer and paused half-way to closing the fridge door, then opened it back up and pulled out another one. John put both beers down on the coffee table to the screams of, "Use a blasted coaster!"

There, sitting on the modern-looking leather chair, was the tall, dark-haired man, in the same suit. He'd been wearing it every time John saw him.

"I insist you leave!" the smooth baritone snapped.

"And I insist you leave _me_ alone!" John snapped back.

The man stood up. "I'm going to call the police!"

"You're in my flat!" the shorter man bellowed.

The darker-haired man huffed and moved to pick up the old phone on the end table — and his hand went straight through it.

"What trick is this?" the spirit hissed. "Did Anderson put you up to this?" John just stared at the irate man in shock. "Oh, I know who this is. This is Sally Donovan, isn't it?" the tall man looked around, "You can come out now. The joke is over."

"Oh, my God," John exclaimed. "You're dead!"

"I am not!" the man screeched, indignant.

And then he was gone. John looked up at the clock. It was still early yet, so he decided to finish his beers in front of some crap telly and then go to bed.

And just like so many nights before, John was awakened from his sleep by nightmares. Always the same one. Like a record stuck on repeat.

The doctor shambled into the bathroom and scrubbed his face with his hands. He stood there for a couple of minutes before he realized what he was waiting for. He was waiting for the dark-haired stranger to reappear.

"Now I _am_ going crazy," John said out loud.

He didn't bother going back to bed. It was no use; he wouldn't be able to get more sleep anyway. He eyed the sleeping pills his doctor prescribed for him, but he left without taking them. The interaction with alcohol was bad enough, and then adding the oh-so-pleasant side effect of vivid dreams killed all desire to take them. He needed escape from his dreams, not give them more fuel.

John went out to the sitting room and pulled out his laptop. He spent the next few hours pouring over websites about ghosts and spirits, and how to get rid of them.

He knew he could just order the books online, but he needed to get out. This place was driving him crazy. So instead, he looked up the name of the closest spiritual shop. John figured they'd have more of what he needed than a regular bookstore. There was one only a couple of streets over. He could walk, and that would be good for him, too, he thought.

He dug around for his tea supplies and made himself a cup. He refrained from adding whiskey, though. He wasn't going to turn into Harry. He was _bad_, but he wasn't Harry bad. He knew he should have breakfast with his tea, but he didn't want to. It was too much effort. He'd pick up a sandwich or something at the café next door when he got home. If he wasn't too tired, that is.

Everything seemed like too much effort these days, but he was a doctor and knew he had to take care of himself. He went through his morning routine and then decided after brushing his teeth, he'd better shave. If he went any longer without doing so, he'd have a beard and end up looking like someone's granddad, especially since the hair on his face came in looking almost grey.

He grabbed his keys, his wallet, and his phone and made his way to the shop. The air was brisk, and it stung his cheeks.

When John reached the shop, it wasn't what he expected. It was a bright little place, and the air was clear. He thought it would be dark, cramped, and the air choked with candles and incense.

He wandered around the small but surprisingly roomy shop a bit before he met the proprietor. She was a mousy little thing with light-brown hair pulled into a ponytail that draped over her shoulder. She had a ready smile, though.

"Hello," she said. "That's quite the spirit you have there."

John whirled around, expecting to see the stranger, but didn't see the ghost anywhere.

"Can you see him?" he asked. She giggled.

"No. But it's very strong." She beckoned him to follow her. "I know just what you need."

"Are you psychic?" John blurted out before he could stop himself.

She laughed. "God no, I'm a medium. I can't read minds, I can just sense spirits." She turned around and stuck out her hand. "I'm Molly, by the way."

"Molly, the medium?" John asked incredulously, as he shook her hand.

"Yep!" She turned and began piling books on him, and he struggled not to drop them.

"There," Molly said with satisfaction. "That should keep you busy for awhile."

She led him to the checkout counter at the front of the shop. She rang him up his order and stuck a business card in the bag. "Just in case," she said with a grin.

"I'm John," he said lamely, remembering he hadn't introduced himself earlier, as he took his purchases from her.

"Well, nice to meet you, John. Good luck with your ghost friend."

John just shook his head.

He made sure to stop by the grocery store to pick up actual food, more than just the beer and tea he'd been subsisting on, anyway. Though he did pick up more of each, too.

He even stopped by the café for the sandwich he'd promised to get himself. He thought that the girl at the counter might be flirting with him, but he wasn't sure. He couldn't even muster the energy to flirt back.

He had to force himself to stay at the café and eat, instead of bolting for his flat. When he was done, he finally made his way up to his flat. He put away the food and beer, grabbing a bottle and bringing it to the sitting room.

John sat down and put down the books he'd bought. He spread them out in front of him.

"Ghosts, the Supernatural, and You?" the dark baritone groused.

"How dull are you?"

John turned to the leather chair and glared at the dark-haired stranger who had magically appeared again.

"I'm getting rid of a pest," John retorted.

"How many times do I have to tell you I _live_ here? I _can't_ be dead."

John sighed. "Do you see a light? Go towards the light." The stranger rolled his eyes.

"There is no light. I'm_ not_ dead."

"Oh yeah," John countered. "What do you do when I'm not here? Where do you go?"

The man frowned. "Something, somewhere. I don't _know_!"

He grabbed at his curls and growled in frustration.

John huffed, "Do you even know your name?"

The man stood stock still as he was clearly trying to remember.

"William."

* * *

**A/N: Hey it's me again. I am not a fan of the "oh his real first name is William," bullshit, however, for the sake of the story, it is easier to use William over Sherlock, because of the rarity of the latter. Otherwise there would be no chase.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Yay! Another chapter for your viewing pleasure, hot on the heels of chapter two. I'm going to try and keep up with the story so I can get this out to you while I'm sailing on calm waters.**

Thanks ever be to the lovely old ping hai. Seriously folks, she's awesome. I'd be lost without her.

* * *

"William?" John asked.

"Yes. No. Yes. That's my name, but it doesn't sound right. Like I'm called something else."

"Like a nickname or something? Like Billy or Will?"

"No," William huffed in frustration. "Something else."

"Okay…" John decided to leave it alone for now. "Can I call you William anyway?"

"You may."

John rolled his eyes at the obvious correction of his grammar. And then he ran his fingers through his hair. "God, I could use a drink. Something stronger than beer."

"Seriously?" William asked, unbelieving. "It's only one o'clock in the afternoon."

"Fuck off," the shorter man glared. "You don't know me."

William's eyes roved up and down, his eyes snapping to John's as he glared at the doctor.

"I know you're an army doctor recently invalided out. Not on duty, no. It's too recent for you to have been have shipped back from abroad. I'd say accident. Shrapnel pierced your shoulder, I'd say left, as it is your dominant hand. Had it been your right, they might have kept you in the military. Regulated you to a field medic. Quite a come-down from top surgeon, but you would have taken it. But no, you are living back here in England, so left it is.

"Bit much to being going on, don't you think?" the tall man seemed to close in on himself as if he was expecting a blow or a row.

"That was…" John started and William winced, "amazing."

William straightened up in surprise. "Really?"

"Sure it was. It was incredible."

"That's not what people normally say," the dark-haired man murmured.

"What do people normally say?" John asked.

"'Piss off.'"

John rolled his eyes. "Right, can't see why." But the there was a hint of a smile on his lips and a merry glint in his eyes that gave William the indication that he wasn't serious, and so the taller man waved him off.

"Still need that drink," John muttered.

He didn't want to admit that William's little deduction brought up things he'd rather forget. He grabbed his things and made off toward the nearest pub. He sat down at the bar. The bartender was a nice lady about his age, with golden brown hair and warm hazel eyes. Her name tag read "Sarah."

"Whiskey," he told her. She gave a small, knowing smile and poured his drink. John saluted her with his glass and downed it one go. He twirled his finger around in the air and she filled his glass.

Again he downed it in one gulp. As she filled it a third time, she asked, "You want to talk about it?"

John laughed bitterly. "No. But everyone else wants me to. My sister, my best friend, my therapist. Actually, the last two are the same. Doesn't seem like the list is as long as I thought it was."

"Your best friend is your therapist?" Sarah asked.

"Self-appointed."

"Ah." She left him nursing his glass to wait on someone else.

"How many is that?" the irritating baritone muttered close to his ear.

John closed his eyes and then slowly turned around to where the stranger stood with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Oh, for shit's sake. Go away," John moaned. "I just want to drown."

"You drink far too much. You'll never feel better if you keep drinking. You know that it's a depressant. Which is the last thing you need."

John groaned. "Go away. _Please_!" He downed the rest of his glass and was about to signal for another, when he looked over at William. He hadn't drunk enough to warrant an hallucination. He squinted at the buttons of the other man's dress shirt.

"Wait…how did you get here?"

William looked around. "I'm not sure. I wanted to stop you from drinking and then I showed up here." His eyes focused hard on John and the blond man gulped. "You are side-stepping the issue."

"What issue?"

"Of you drinking!" the dark-haired stranger roared.

John rolled his eyes and motioned to the bartender for another. She filled his glass again before moving back to her other customers.

"That's it!" William shoved himself into John's body and forced him to put down the drink, and then with halting steps that John fought at every opportunity, led the man out to the street.

"What the hell?" John screeched and William was standing next to him.

William was looking at his hands in wonder, and an evil grin creased his face. He then forced himself back in and made John cross the street to a bench on the other side where he dropped him.

"That was fun," the taller man chuckled.

"That was invasive, that's what that was," John protested. "How the hell did you do that?"

"I'm not sure," William said. "Took a lot out of me though."

"Oh, you have so got to go."

William glared at him and watched as John marched off for home.

When John got home, he looked around, but the ghost was nowhere to be found. He went to his laptop and called the first result for exorcists. "Shan's General Exorcisms." They were Chinese and came the next day with oils and incense burning lanterns, chanting around the room.

William glared at them. "Dear god, look at the mess they're making. It's like a bloody circus in here."

And when they had gone, the glaring man was still there.

Next, John called a priest. Father Knight turned out to be a fresh-faced kid with big ears and a stammer.

The ghost actually laughed at that one. "I am under the impression that I have to believe in his god for it to work. And I'm an atheist," he drawled.

So the poor, stressed-out doctor called the local chapter of the Ghostbusters, praying that they didn't use actual proton packs. They showed up with the gear, but they spent most of it running around and examining every nook and cranny.

"If they break something," William growled, "you _will_ replace it."

John was at his last tether. He had tried everything he could think of. And then his eyes lit on the books he had bought days earlier. He started rummaging around the flat, lifting up newspapers, other books, and cups of tea, before he found what he was looking for. The bag that had Molly's business card. William's eyes narrowed at the small, white strip of cardstock with suspicion.

The doctor called the number and within the hour, Molly was at his door.

"Hey, Molly," he said as he let her in. "Thanks for coming. I don't know what else to do."

"Hey," she said as she looked around the room. "Nice place." She went into the kitchen and stopped. "He's the strongest here," she told John.

The doctor looked over at William, who was standing by the fridge with a skeptical look on his face.

She began to fiddle with a handkerchief that seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Are you sure he's dead? He's very strong. I've never felt anything like him before."

"Well what else could he be?" John asked. Molly answered, but John was too busy watching William jumping up and down like it was Christmas.

"I told you I wasn't dead!" he crowed.

John turned back to Molly to ask her to repeat what she said, but he caught the look on her face and he froze. She had this forlorn expression that caused a sharp pain in John's chest.

"You have to let her go. She's sad that you won't move on."

John rocked back as though he'd been struck. "He's the one that needs to move on. To the afterlife or whatever," he said pointing at the fridge.

She shook her head. "Not him, John. Her. She was very close to you."

The blond man stared at his feet.

"Don't." It was a single word but it held the weight of worlds.

"Oh, I get it," William sneered. "What she do? Dump your alcoholic arse?"

John whirled around, his face flush with anger. "Don't you fucking dare! You think you know me because you did a little trick figuring out the accident? Well, you don't know jack!" He stormed off.

"Oh, well done," Molly snapped. "I don't what you said, ghost boy, but his wife died!" William gulped and looked down at his face in shame. "Now," Molly continued. "You will go and apologize this instant."

William closed his eyes and pictured the blond doctor, and he was there.

John was on the roof of 221 looking over Baker Street.

"I'm sorry, John," the dark-haired man murmured as he approached the doctor from behind.

John sighed. "Her name was Mary. She was seven months pregnant when it happened. I was going to be a father." He laughed bitterly. "I had six months on my current tour, and then I was going to settle down with Mary and the baby."

William merely watched John as the man struggled to tell his story.

"I had just gotten off a ten-hour flight, ready to start my last leave before I retired. I knew I shouldn't be driving that tired, but Mary was still experiencing morning sickness and wasn't feeling up to it. So, I drove. We were almost home when I fell asleep at the wheel. We drifted into oncoming traffic. There was a lorry coming the other direction. We smashed into him. He didn't have a scratch on him, according the cops that talked to me later.

Mary was pronounced dead at the scene. The baby, I understand, lived outside the womb for two days." John broke down in sobs. "I didn't even get to meet her. I was in a coma for three days! Three days. She must have been so frightened. And now she's gone!"

He turned around and slid down the parapet to sit on the floor of the roof. His sobs continued to break the silence of the night.

William sat down next to him. "What was Mary like? Tell me the good; it'll help you focus."

John choked back his tears. "She was blonde with bright blue eyes. She could make me laugh. She was…well I called her a gardener. She'd hit me for that, by the way," he chuckled. "Well, anyway, she called herself a landscape artist." He looked up. "She would have liked this spot. She would have turned it into a garden."

"I love gardens," William whispered. "I've thought about making it a small garden, complete with beehives. I would make honey, and it would be sanctuary from the screaming inside my head."

"Why didn't you?" John asked turning toward the ghost, but William was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Yay! Another chapter done and I'm half way through the next. **

**Thanks to my beta as always, old ping hai.**

* * *

John woke up feeling weary. After William had vanished, John returned to the flat to find that Molly, too, had gone. Though, no doubt through more mundane means.

He had collapsed on his bed fully clothed, taking only enough energy to remove his shoes, before succumbing to his exhaustion. He hadn't told anyone some of the things he told William, not even Janine. The whole experience had left him completely drained emotionally. Yet, in the morning light once he actually thought about it, John felt lighter.

William hadn't offered any pity or sympathy. He had listened, extending no platitudes or meaningless condolences. The dark-haired stranger had done John a favor and it it was only right that John returned it.

He smiled for the first time in ages. He went about his morning routine, that smile never faltering. He stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed and ready to take on the day. His first stop was the kitchen.

He opened the fridge and began emptying it of the beer into a rubbish bin he found under the sink. Once he had cleaned out the fridge he began rummaging around the cupboards looking for other forms of liquor. Once he was done, the rubbish bin was full and John sighed, satisfied. He turned to take the rubbish out to the bins in front and jumped.

William was standing in the doorway to the sitting room, leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. "Doing some spring cleaning?" he intoned.

"About time, don't you think?" John asked, walking up to the taller man.

William grinned. "Indeed." He moved out of John's way, merely out of habit, as John probably could have walked through him.

John came back dusting off his hands, feeling smug.

"Did you throw away the bin, too?" William asked, raising an eyebrow.

The doctor looked out the wind to where the bins were and then back at William, his eyes wide. Then he just started laughing. The other man's deep chuckle joined the doctor's high pitched giggle. and soon John had to hold his sides to keep himself from bursting at the seams.

When they had finally settled, John gasped, "God, I haven't laughed like that in ages."

William just smiled and the shorter man returned it readily.

"Hey," John said suddenly. "How would you like to go on a scavenger hunt?" He had been thinking about it since he woke up.

"And what would be at the end of this scavenger hunt?"

John's smile turned soft, "If we've got any luck at all; you."

William's jaw went slack. "You would do that for me?"

"Of course."

"Where do we start?" William clasped his hands and rubbed them together.

"I thought we'd start with your neighbors."

"Agreed."

John knocked on the door to 221A and then looked back at William nervously.

The door opened to reveal an older woman in a deep purple dress.

"Yes?" she asked, her voice was high and wispy.

"Hello. My name is John Watson, I'm the new tenant of 221B." He stretched out his hand. She shook it.

"Oh hello. Martha Hudson, how do you do?"

"Good, good." John just wanted to skip the pleasantries. "Look, I was wondering if you knew the previous tenant? You see, he left behind some personal effects and I wanted to return them."

William nodded approvingly.

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson said, "I'm afraid I don't know." At John's crestfallen expression she rushed to explain. "You have to understand, he was quite peculiar. Coming and going all hours of the day, playing that cursed violin well into the wee hours of the night, conducting foul-smelling experiments. I'd have sworn that he blew up his flat once."

John sighed. "Well, thank you anyway. And if you think of anything, let me know."

She nodded, "Good luck." The door closed gently and the doctor turned to the spirit and asked, "Mad scientist?"

William rolled his eyes. "I doubt it. The electric bill would be too high. Besides, of all the things she mentioned, the violin seems the most useful clue about who I am."

"Concert violinist?"

William shook his head, "Unlikely."

"If you say so," John huffed.

They went down to the basement and 221C, again John knocked on the door.

The door opened to reveal a striking woman in a green lace peignoir, silk stockings, and high-waisted knickers. The lace of the collar of the peignoir covered her breasts, but the rest of it was sheer.

John gulped. "Um…hello," he stuttered.

"Hmmm…and what can I do for you?" She looked high up and down, appraisingly.

John coughed.

"Oh, for god's sake!" William complained, and the whine of his voice brought the former soldier back to the task at hand.

"I was wondering if you knew the previous tenant of 221B?" he managed to force out.

"I didn't even know there was one," she purred. She put one hand high up on the doorframe and the other on her hip. "But I wouldn't mind getting to know the current resident." She leaned forward and whispered, "Intimately."

John blushed and hastily made his excuses, before he fled.

William concentrated on John, appearing by the man's side. He looked out over Baker Street before glancing down at a still heavily-breathing John.

"Well, she was nice," John said after he had had his fill of the panic attack.

"John, she was a pit bull. You ran."

Oi!" he protested. "I just wasn't expecting that. In fact, I wouldn't mind taking her up on her offer."

The taller man rolled his eyes. They were silent a moment before John stood up to join him looking out over the parapet.

"So, didn't know anything about you," he said concerning the tenant of 221C.

"Nope," William replied popping the 'P'.

"Probably moved in after you'd gone," John said.

His companion sighed. "Most likely."

Again silence fell on them. After a moment or two John spoke.

"So…what do you want to do next; run around the city hoping to jar your memory or dig about the flat hoping to actually find something you left behind?"

William sighed. "I have no desire to play tourist today, we'll search the flat."

"Aww…I was looking forward to dashing about London with you, but I guess that can wait until tomorrow."

Sherlock chuckled and they went to go search the flat. The found a piece of paper with an address and while they could make out most of it, there was some contention on the final digit.

"It's a six," John insisted.

"It's a five," William argued.

John threw his arms up in the air. "Fine! It's your writing anyway."

"No, it's not," the other man contested.

John rolled his eyes and ignored him. He got a taxi and gave the driver William's version of the address. They rode in silence. John appreciated the strange didn't seem to prattle on. He liked the companionable tranquility that fell between them. The cabbie stopped at a row of brownstones. John got out and told the cabbie to wait.

He stepped out on to the pavement. "All right, last chance, you sure it's a six?"

William scowled. "Just get on with it."

John walked up to 476 and rang the bell. An older man opened the door. He had a stern, weather-beaten face. John could tell this was a man with far too many demons. But he had come this far, he might as well press on.

"Um…hi," he said, trying to break the ice. But before he could get any further, John was facing down the barrel of a service pistol. Immediately, his hands went up and he took a step back.

"Look, sir…" he stammered. He moved slowly to his pocket and pulled out his wallet to show the man his military ID. "The name's John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, RAMC."

John closed his eyes as he heard the tell-tale sound of a safety being disengaged.

"I don't care who you are, you get off my doorstep," the man growled. John nodded, opening his eyes. He took a couple steps back as the man with the gun looked around to see if John had friends and then slammed the door.

John high-tailed it back to the taxi with orders to the cabbie to step on it. The cabbie took a furtive glance at the house and then floored it.

As they sped away, a man exited 475 arguing with his wife.

"God damn it, Emily. It's my job. I make sure the city is safe. That _you_ are safe."

"When you got this promotion, I assumed you'd have a desk job, 9-5," she snarled.

"I told you, not this promotion. You're thinking of superintendents, not detective inspectors. I like my job."

"Whatever," she said rolling her eyes. "This case is taking too long. You use to wrap them up faster."

There was a new whine in her voice, the man noted. "Yeah well, I had Sherlock Holmes then," he huffed.

"I told you not to use that freak. That you would get too dependent on him, and now look at you!"

"Enough!" he growled.

"Fuck off, Greg," she said, flipping him off. She stormed off into the house, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

John and William dashed up the stairs to 221B, giggling and falling over themselves. They threw open the door and collapsed to the floor in a heap. Or rather John did. William fell through John.

"Well, that was pointless," William drawled.

And that set John off laughing again. At first William rolled his eyes, but soon he was laughing with the doctor on the floor.

"Oh, god," John wheezed. "That has got to be the most ridiculous thing I have ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," William replied, giggling.

"That wasn't just me." John started giggling again. He slapped the ground trying to get his breath back. It sounded with a hollow thump. They stopped giggling to focus on the sound. John hit that bit of floor again and it came back with the same hollow thump. They shared a glance and then John threw off the rug.

He could see that a couple of the floorboards were loose. He pried them up to reveal an empty space in the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry about the wait. I had to move back cross-country and it ate a lot of my time. So, for my birthday, I decided to gift my lovely fans with a new chapter, yay! (waves arms in the air like Kermit the Frog).**

**Thanks as always, to the lovely old ping hai, the beta a girl can hope for.**

**And apparently this is the story of cliffhangers. I'm so sorry.**

* * *

Inside the hollow was a small wooden box, two wallets, and an unlicensed handgun.

John pulled everything out and set the box and wallets to the side. He picked up the gun and checked the safety, to make sure it was engaged before pulling back the slide to ensure the chamber was empty. He released the magazine, noting it was missing a round and then slid it back into place. It took all the space of a few seconds and Sherlock was impressed on how fluid and natural John made it look.

John set the handgun to the side and picked up the wallets. He opened them both up at the same time. They turned out to be the police badges for one Detective Inspector G. Lestrade.

"What the hell are you doing with police IDs? Two of them no less. Geez, William."

William sat back and placed his hands together under his chin. "I find it interesting that you seem more concerned with the stolen badges than you are about a clearly illegal handgun."

John shrugged. He had his own illicit service pistol, so it wasn't as though he had room to complain.

"Where do you keep yours?" the spirit asked.

John jumped. "I swear to god, it's like you can read minds."

The dark-haired man chuckled. "No, just your facial expressions and body language."

"It's taped underneath my nightstand next to the side of the bed I sleep on."

"Ah."

John opened the box and rolled his eyes, tossing his head back in disbelief. He shoved the box at William so he could see its contents. "Please tell me this isn't what it looks like. Please?"

The dark-haired man's eyes flickered over the tourniquet, silver spoon, and a handful each of needles and syringes.

"Apparently, I was an addict. Cocaine is most likely, though heroine is a distinct possibility."

"Why aren't you more shocked about this?" John's voice rose to near breaking. "At the very least, upset?"

"Was, John. _Was_ an addict. Look at it!"

John looked closer at the drug kit. He didn't understand what William meant.

"Really look," William prodded. "The box is older than the rest of what you found in the hollow. The top has been only lightly dusted, but the rest of it was covered in dust. If it had been used, there would be signs of the rest of it being cleaned, too. When you opened it, it took effort. Had it been used on a regular basis, it would have opened smoothly. That kind of decay takes months, if not years to form."

William pulled on his hair in frustration. "You're a doctor. You know. Once an addict, always an addict. The top being cleaner than the rest indicates that it has been touched recently. Stroked." He stood up and started to pace. "I don't remember, but I can surmise that when I would get the craving, I would touch the lid until the feeling abated."

John believed him with William's first words and he looked at the box as William made his deductions. At some point, however, John tuned him out. The box felt strange to him. Like it was smaller on the inside than the outside dimensions should have allowed.

There! On the corner was a small protrusion. He pressed it and a door slid open to reveal pictures. John pulled them out and William stopped his rant to peer at his find. They were all of a curly-haired boy with a large red dog. John turned one of them over and on the back read "William aged 6 and Redbeard."

"You were cute."

William blushed. "I suppose."

"What's with the dog? If you remember, that is."

"He was my closest companion growing up. He had to be put down after a car hit him."

John reached out and realized that he couldn't touch the younger man. "I'm sorry."

William walked to the window and John put everything back into the hollow but the badges. He put those on the desk and then walked to look out the window beside the spirit.

"Hey," he said, breaking William's musings. "Why don't we head down to the Met and return these to their owner? Maybe he'll know something about you."

The taller man sighed. There was a part of him that wanted to give it all up and just live here with John as whatever he was. But there was another part of him that wanted to be alive again, to touch again. To touch John. That's what he had to focus on, what had to drive him forward.

"I'd like that," he said. "Thank you."

John flashed him his brightest smile and William couldn't help but smile back.

* * *

As they were exiting 221, the smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted in the air, drawing John to the cafe next door. His stomach growled. "Would you mind terribly if I popped in for a sandwich and a coffee? I haven't really eaten today."

William nodded. "I always wanted to try this place. I just never had the time."

John shook his head. He was starting think that his friend had been very lonely. _Friend?_ Where had that come from? And yet, there was something about the word that rang true. He had spent more time with the ghost than with people who were actually his friends.

While John was getting his sandwich, William was busy deducing the other patrons. John was just finishing up paying when William pointed to a young man twitching in the corner and said, "That man has stolen her necklace." He swung his arm to indicate the pretty Asian girl blowing softly on her tea.

"Really?"

"Of course." And then he went on to tell John everything he'd deduced from the pair. From the what the necklace was, (a jade lotus pendant), where the twitchy teenager hid the pendant (in the lining of his denim jacket), where the woman worked (a museum, its logo was on her bag), to the fact the young man was tweaking (a lot of things that John would rather _not_ think about, really.)

John walked over to the young man, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hauled him to his feet.

William rolled his eyes and then hissed, "Pull out the badge!" John did so without question.

"It's all right, we're all fine. We're all fine here," John said, flashing the badge. He then dragged the man outside.

"Give it here," John said, his voice going cold and hard.

"I ain't got nothin'," the boy snapped.

"Even his English is appalling," William sneered.

John rifled through the boy's pockets, keeping a firm grip on his collar. "What's your name?"

"I ain't gonna tell ya, you ain't a copper!"

John stopped his search to twist the boy's wrist and he dropped to one knee in pain. "No, I'm worse. I'm a captain in the RAMC and I just caught you stealing."

"Bullshit," he croaked. "Yous wasn't there when I took it." John raised an eyebrow and the kid cursed. "The name's Billy."

"Well, Billy, what are we going to do about this?" John let go of the boy's wrist and pulled out the necklace from the lining of the denim jacket.

"You're not gonna tell are you?" Billy asked.

"Nope." Billy let out a sigh of relief. "You are." The boy blanched. "Look kid, I know why you took it," John said.

"Yes, to pay for his coke habit, clearly," William said.

"You wanted to have a way to talk to her, am I right?" John continued ignoring his lanky shadow.

Billy nodded.

"Oh for god's sake!" William snarled. "That's so pedestrian."

John dragged Billy back inside and handed the girl her necklace. "This idiot has something he wants to say."

John went up to the counter to get his food. He found his coffee had been remade and his money was on the counter. And his attempts to return the money were met by stone wall silence.

* * *

They arrived at New Scotland Yard and John strolled right in. A small black woman came up to him and blocked his path to receptionist.

"Oi!" she called, her voice was nasal and whiny. "You can't just come barging in here. Visitors are to come in through the other side."

"I know her!" William cried. He frowned a moment and then snapped his fingers. "Sally Donovan. She'd know Lestrade!"

"Look," John said to the woman, eyeing her up and down.

"Sergeant," William supplied.

"Look, Sgt. Donovan," John tried again. She stepped back in surprise that this stranger knew who she was. "I've had a shit day and I want it to be over with as soon as possible. So, if you want to be useful, you'll show me the way to DI Lestrade's office or get the fuck out of my way so I can find someone who will."

Her face drained of color, and she turned around, stalking off toward the elevators. William and John shared a quick glance before they tore off after her.

Once they were in the elevator she crossed her arms and glared at John. "You want to tell me how you knew my name? You aren't like that freak, are you? Looking at a person and knowing who they shagged?"

John frowned, that sounded like what William did, but she made it sound like it was a trick and not something to be praised.

He decided he didn't like her, so he ignored her question. The doors opened and she led him back to a small glass office.

She knocked on the door. "There's a bloke here to see you, boss," she said poking her head in.

"Send him in," the smooth voice said. Donovan waved John through and then made herself scarce.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" John asked as he stuck out his hand.

The grey-haired flashed him a weary smile before taking it. "That's me. How can I help you today?"

John reached into his pocket and pulled out the two ID badges. He handed them to the Inspector.

"My god, where'd you find these?" Lestrade asked.

"In the floorboards of my new flat," John replied.

"And that wouldn't happen to be 221B Baker Street, would it?"

"I like him," William exclaimed.

"It would, in fact. How'd you know?" John asked.

"Because there is only one person in the world who would steal my badges, and who is Sherlock Holmes."

William was jumping up and down like a child. "Yes, Sherlock! Sherlock is my name!"

"Oh, I thought it might be William." John went on to explain when Lestrade looked at him strangely at the lack of recognition of the name. "There were a couple of photos with the badges that had the name William on them."

"I wouldn't know. I only knew him as Sherlock. You'd have to ask his brother, Mycroft."

"That overweight meddler," William- no, Sherlock muttered.

"Did you just come to return these or was there something else?" Lestrade asked, when John didn't move to leave.

"I was just curious about him. I had heard things about him from his neighbors, and I wanted to talk to someone who actually knew him."

Lestrade laughed. "I'm not sure that includes me, but I'll do what I can."

"What happened to him? Why isn't he at Baker Street anymore?"

Lestrade's face fell. "It's better if I show you. You up for a trip? It's a bit of a drive."

John nodded and followed the Inspector to his car. They rode the entire journey in silence.

They pulled up to St. Bartholomew's and John looked at Lestrade in shock.

"He's here?" he asked the Inspector.

Lestrade nodded and he led John through the hospital, like a man who had done so a dozen times or more. "He was in a car accident on his way to his brother's for some party or another. A lorry driver fell asleep at the wheel and barreled into the cab he was in, killed the driver instantly. Almost wish it'd done the same to him."

Lestrade opened a door and there in the bed was Sherlock.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hello, everyone! A lovely new chapter for you. I got to use "No, shit Sherlock!" in a fanfic. Been dying to do that for ages. Also, it is NOT a cliffhanger. So, there's that. **

**Also, love to my faithful beta! If you don't know who that is by now, you really haven't been reading these author's notes. For shame! Old ping hai is awesome!  
**

* * *

The Sherlock on the bed was pale, far more so than the dark-haired man standing beside John, who was trying to hold back tears.

John walked forward toward the bed, stopping at its foot to read the chart. It was breaking several rules and probably a dozen or so actual laws, but it would be more criminal for Sherlock not to know. He began leafing through the pages, going back and forth. Checking, double checking. But the information stayed the same.

"You understand that?" Lestrade asked, nodded to the chart in John's hands.

"A bit," John said. "Civilian medical charts are a little different from the ones I was used to in the army, but a lot of the essentials remain the same."

"Army doc, then?"

"Was."

Lestrade could tell it was a sore topic for the younger man and left it alone. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

John sighed. "It doesn't look good," he said, correctly identifying the police officer's unasked question.

"Just give it to me straight. All these other doctors use big words," Lestrade said.

"That they do. I think there's a course they give at uni," John said with a chuckle. He sighed and all merriment drained from his features. "There has been no marked improvement since the accident. All the other injuries have fully healed. As best they can tell, anyway. But he is no closer to consciousness than he was when he was brought in."

Lestrade ran his hands over his face as Sherlock gave a distressed squeak as though he had been trodden on.

John resisted the urge to look back at his friend.

"There's still a chance, though, right?" Lestrade pleaded.

John felt the desire to lie, but that would be wrong, so he hedged a bit. "It's rare. But, hell yes, there is still a chance."

A nurse popped her head in. "Detective Inspector?"

"Yes?" Lestrade asked.

"Mr. Holmes wishes to speak to you in private," she told him.

"Right. Of course. Tell him I'll be there in a minute," Lestrade said.

The nursed nodded and closed the door behind her. Lestrade turned to John. "You think you can show yourself out? I've got to go."

"Yeah. I'm fine," John said, shooing the officer out the door.

Once Lestrade had left, John went up to the Sherlock lying in the hospital bed and took his hand.

The spirit Sherlock murmured. "You feel warm."

John's head snapped up. "You can feel that?"

"Let go for a minute," Sherlock demanded and John did as he was bid. "I don't feel anything. No warmth, or cold. Just…nothing."

John picked up Sherlock's hand again.

"Warm," Sherlock said. "Like wrapping your hands around your favorite mug of tea after a long day."

John looked down at their joined hands. "Maybe we're connected somehow." Hope infused his face.

"Perhaps we are."

Sherlock tried several times to connect with his body. He tried lying down. Jumping on his body. Both with John holding his hand and without. But nothing seemed to make it stick.

John kept glancing at the door, worry etched into his features. "Look, Sherlock. I have to go. I can't be in here when your brother arrives. I don't know how to explain…us."

Sherlock nodded. "I-I have to stay here. I have to figure this out."

John's face fell. "Of course. Right. Well, good luck." He walked to the door and just as he reached out for the handle Sherlock called out.

"John?"

The doctor turned around slowly, "Yeah?"

"Thank you. For everything."

John swallowed back the lump in his throat before he replied, "Yeah, of course. My pleasure." And then he was gone.

* * *

John got back to Baker Street feeling worse than he had in weeks. It was like Mary had died all over again. He thought he would feel elated when he discovered the mystery of who his spirit was, but instead he felt hollow, empty. Like someone had drained the last bit of joy out of his life. For good.

It seemed that he was fated to never be happy.

He looked around the flat hopelessly. There was nothing in the flat he could use to dull the pain, as he had cleared out all the booze that morning. Had it really only been this morning? It felt like ages. And now he was facing the possibility of a life without Sherlock and it stung. It felt like a fist had taken hold of his heart and squeezed.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there in the sitting room debating whether or not he had the energy to go out and get as stone drunk as possible, but he was shaken from his brooding by a knock on his door.

He willed his body to move and he answered the door. Standing on the other side was the resident of 221C.

"Oh, hello," John said, stupidly. "You're the woman from this morning."

She smiled. "Hello, yes. I'm Irene, by the way. What's your name?"

John stared at her for a moment. She seemed to be wearing nothing but a blue dressing gown and her hair was damp.

"Uh…John. How can I help you?"

"Hello, John. You see, I went to go get my mail this morning and the door to my flat accidentally locked behind me. I didn't realize and of course I didn't have my keys with me. So, I was wondering if I could use use your phone and laptop to get a locksmith out?" She tilted her head and batted her eyelashes.

"Oh, right. Yeah. Come in." He pointed at the old landline phone and his laptop. He stood over her as she looked up a locksmith and then watched as she called. One shoulder of her robe had fallen to reveal a milky white skin. She paid it no mind as she gave her information to the locksmith. Once she was done, she turned to John, practically oozing charm.

"Thank you, John. He'll be here in a half-hour."

"That's good." He didn't know what else to say.

"Is there a bathroom I can use?" she asked, the errant robe slipping further to uncover the top of her breast.

"Um, yeah," John said, trying not choke at the blatant display. He directed her to the bathroom and as she walked away, her gait taking on a sensual prowl. Once she closed the door, he put his head in his hands. He did not want to deal with this right now. All he wanted to do was curl up on his bed and wail about the loss of a spirit named Sherlock Holmes.

"John!" a familiar voice called out. John jumped, his usual response to Sherlock's popping up out of nowhere.

"Christ! I thought you were going to stay the hospital."

"I was, but something has happened. I overheard the most dreadful news," Sherlock said, desperate.

"Oh, what a lovely bedroom!" Irene called out.

Sherlock rounded on John. "What is the slag from 221C doing here? In your bedroom no less!"

"She got locked out her flat!" John hissed back.

"Oh, a damsel in distress? Are you really that obvious, John? Because, this? This is textbook seduction!"

Irene stepped out into the kitchen where they could see her. Her robe was open and she slowly slid the garment off her shoulders to the floor.

"I could have you right here on the table begging me twice," she purred. "But that bed of yours looks far more comfortable."

Sherlock gave a wordless noise of rage and vanished. So did John's patience. He swore long and loud.

Irene frowned. "That's not the usual reaction." She stepped forward until he was in his space. "When you ran away earlier, I knew that I had to have you. You were just so adorable."

"Look, I have had the most shit-filled day imaginable and I am not in the mood," John growled. He moved past her to look in the bathroom and the bedroom.

"You know, I could help you with that," Irene said trying to block his exit from the bathroom.

John turned to glare at her and she stepped back. "You know what," he said, crowding her back into the kitchen. "I think you can." She stumbled over her robe. He picked it up and shoved it at her. "You can put that back on or not, maybe the locksmith will be more interested. Couldn't care less. But you need to leave now. You can try 221A, but get the fuck out of my flat!"

He herded her out the door and slammed it behind her. He rested his head against the door for a moment, before he looked skyward. Suddenly, he knew where his spirit had gone. Sure enough, the detective was leaning against the parapet looking out over Baker Street to London below.

John must have made some kind of noise coming up because before he could move to join him, Sherlock muttered, "That was quick, though I assume it's because you haven't had sex in awhile. Still, isn't it considered rude to dash off after the deed?"

"Shut up!" John barked. He wished he could grab the dark-haired man and wheel him around to face him. "I wasn't going to sleep with her. I didn't."

"She clearly had other plans," Sherlock snarled.

"No shit, Sherlock," the doctor growled back. "I got that myself, thanks."

The silence stretched out between them, achingly hard and angry.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Why what?"

"Why didn't you want to sleep with her?"

"Because today had been horrifying and I'm not the sort to relieve the tension with sex. Besides," he said, taking a deep breath, "there's you. I was thinking about you and missing you."

"Oh."

Again the silence drew between them, this time it was more thoughtful.

"So," John said, "what were you going to tell me? You know, before the Irene fiasco?"

"Oh!" Sherlock said, whirling to face the doctor. "It's awful! They were talking about removing me from life support!"

"_What?_" John roared. "Why? It's only been a couple of months!"

"It's like you said at the hospital, there haven't been any improvements since then."

John closed his eyes. "What do we do?"

"We convince my idiotic brother not to sign the papers or at least hold off until we get this figured out."

"And how do we do that? I can't just go up to him and tell him not sign them. He'd think me mad and throw me out."

"What about using William?" Sherlock suggested.

John shook his head. "No good. DI Lestrade thinks I got the name from the pictures. We can't take the risk that they talked. If I use William and he thinks I got it from the photos, he'll think I'm lying. I'll get kicked out. We'll need something else, something only you would know."

Sherlock thought for a moment. "JJ!" he shouted.

"Who or what is a JJ?"

"JJ is Mycroft's best friend from university. She had the biggest crush on him for the longest time. Well, just before Mycroft's wedding, I caught her kissing him, right before. Like minutes before."

"Really?" John asked. "Who does that?"

"Someone who clearly has a flare for the dramatic, but with a sense of self-preservation. If she did it in the usual Hollywood style at that particular part in the ceremony and he turns her down, she'd be humiliated. This way, she gets to be dramatic with the public recriminations if it all went wrong."

John laughed. "I know plenty of people like that. My sister included." Sherlock's eyes crinkled with mirth. "All right, so the plan is, to go over to your brother's house convince that not only am I to be trusted, but to not pull the plug on you, right?"

"Yes."

The doctor sighed. "You do know how many ways this could go horribly, horribly wrong?"

Sherlock smirked. "Only about three-thousand, four hundred and seven."

John chuckled. "Only you would know that."


End file.
